Forever On
by SleepingSeeker
Summary: Follow up on Love's Causality, as promised. Set after the ending of Love's Causality, the night they've been preparing themselves for has finally arrived. But will Donatello's regrets derail the perfect evening? I'm thanking tmntpunx for inspiring me to write tonight. One Shot. Enjoy and please review!


**Forever On**

* * *

His fingers, numb, clammy and suddenly too thick, fumbled at the latch, his right hand shaking too much to do something as simple as unbuckling a belt. He tried again, more aggressively, feeding into this flash of irritation as a means to escape the suffocating anxiety clouding his motions. His thumb clipped the corner of the buckle, catching the skin with enough force to break it.

"Ouch, dammit," he bit back the swear, choking on his ineptitude; feeling the heat on his face, the back of his neck. He shook his head, chin lowered to his chest, eyes pinching shut as he sucked on the side of his thumb, the briny flavor of his blood clotting against his tongue in his too-dry mouth.

He couldn't look at her. His pulse was a rushing stampede in his ears. Humiliation and disappointment gripped him.

Just like that the night was ruined.

The couch shifted and there along his shoulder, feather-light, were her fingers. Slender and delicate, they slipped over his shoulder and around his neck, unlatching the various clasps, unlooping and pulling through the belts until they fell free, before he could protest, until; finally, she rolled her hands around and under to catch the metal arm, cradling it. She set it aside with reverent care.

Donatello glared at it, dropping his stinging thumb from his lips, feeling nothing but revulsion for his prosthetic. The old shame, the old recriminations ghosted along the edges of his mind. The most unrelenting of them all, which still haunted his nights on occasion: the utter and complete unfairness of the situation. Those times, when he'd lay awake, all the weight of his actions, his family's actions, would threaten the progress he'd made. Self-pity was a trap that dogged him most if not all days.

Fingertips alighted upon his cheek, turning him from his dark thoughts as well as the offensive sight of the prosthetic to one much more pleasant: her.

April. Next to him. Here at last. Warm, inviting. Loving. Freckled cheeks flushed. Eyes bright and sharp with need.

A need he understood in only the broadest of terms. A yearning that his body recognized without preamble and responded to with verve. Donatello chuckled weakly and swallowed. His mind scattered as logical thought fled and his earlier embarrassment dissolved beneath her firey gaze.

He could only think how her skin seemed to glow, rosy and ephemeral. Of how delicate her lips seemed, glistening coral petals. Her hair cascading over bare shoulders. Her breasts just swelling beneath the sheer, lace-topped nightgown she wore.

All of her perfect.

And too exquisite for his rough calloused hand, too tender for his awkward, one-armed embraces, too lovely for his already freakish form made all the more undesirable due to his missing limb.

Donatello cowered as she brought her parting lips close.

They'd talked about this moment. At length. Mapping out all the possibilities, the pros and cons, the most desirable timetable based on the length of their relationship, the status of it, the levels they were hoping to raise it to; exhausting all the necessary avenues of potential places, times and situations which would be most beneficial for them both.

They'd spent four months blissfully, happily dating before they decided both were ready to discuss this next step. Then six weeks discussing scientifically the logistics. Another two weeks prepping the perfect day, dinner and music. Three days reassessing their decision. And one day spent in giddy anticipation of the night's event.

And here they were. Finally.

She wanted him. He knew. He wanted her. There was no doubt.

But.

He'd been immature, stupid and hurtful. Cruel, condescending and cold. Of this all, she'd forgiven him.

Too readily, in his opinion. Though he did everything he could to make it up to her, every single day. Just as he had with his family. He wasn't perfect. But he wasn't going to let his past transgressions against the only people in the world who loved him go unaccounted for. He could never make the things he'd said and done go away, but he could make it so that his loved ones knew how much they meant to him. How much he was grateful to them.

He wanted her. He ached for her. And tonight their love would cumulate in the most intimate act possible.

But.

Not for the first time, Donatello felt the imposter.

 _I don't deserve this._

He pulled away, clearing his throat. He moved to stand up, pulling out of her reach before she could catch hold of his stump. The slightest brush of her fingertips along the neatly knitted scar tissue made him shiver and set his jaw.

 _I don't deserve this. Not yet._

"Donnie." There was a note of warning in her voice.

He coughed and waved his right hand through the air. "Just, uh," he struggled, "need a second. Need some water." He added a few extra fake coughs for good measure and rushed from the room, chased by her sigh.

In the kitchen, guzzling a glass of water, April found him. She crossed her arms and padded up to stand next to him. Waiting in silent anticipation for him to explain.

He eyed her and finished the water, peered into the glass and carefully set it into the sink.

"I think," he said with a nervous glance in her direction which he swept away immediately as their eyes met, and he spotted the look she was giving him, "I think that maybe we should reconsider-"

She moved around him and gently pushed him from the sink. She gripped his hand and led him out of the kitchen.

"Mhm," she said as she pulled him down the short hallway toward her room.

"There's just a lot . . . to consider. And maybe we need to-to think this through a little more."

Donatello stumbled along, eyes scanning the floor, head cocked, listening for a response. When she said nothing more and only opened the door to lead them both into the darkened bedroom, he hesitated. He shuffled his feet against the carpeting, slowing his momentum, forcing her to release his hand.

She moved into the room a bit further.

"Well, don't you think so? Uh," he faltered as she glanced over her shoulder at him. In a languid move, she turned and lifted the hem of her slip. He babbled a string of incoherent syllables as the negligée rose up over her head and was tossed to one side.

Naked, she sat on the edge of the bed and swept her hair from her shoulder with an elegant motion of her head.

He stood, staring like a fool. Devouring the angelic sight that met his eyes. Feeling the world and all the inhabitants freeze and fade away. Leaving only the two of them, here, now. Alone. Trying and failing to keep his gaze from following the curves of her breasts, the planes of her stomach lower to the downy tuft between her firm thighs.

Riveted, he could not speak. His heart a drumbeat of distant thunder. Her smile the lightning bolt that electrified him.

She sat forward, raised her arms up to him, beckoning him to her.

He didn't know when he moved, but he was suddenly answering her call. Taking her up into his arm, kissing her mouth, her jaw, her neck. One knee braced on the mattress as they fell backwards. Her arms going round his neck, pulling him closer. The impossible warmth of her body driving him to press closer still. He shuddered and moaned.

"Donnie," she breathed and her voice was a song he'd listened for his entire life.

Over the thunder of his heartbeat, he realized he was murmuring her name again and again, asking her, pleading with her, begging for an answer, but for what, he had no idea.

"Yes," she breathed between kissing his throat and his chin. "Yes, Donatello. Yes," she repeated as she kissed his mouth and cheek as he buried his face along the side of her neck, quaking in her arms, tremors running through his body with each affirmation.

Heat blossomed between them. An incredible molten need. Their skin was covered in a fine sheen of sweat, shimmering in the low light.

Gone was the fear. Gone the recriminations. Between them now, there existed only the love, long overlooked, erupting from the fire of their passion.

Limbs and their number did not matter here.

The past was a lost continent.

Two bodies, now one. Two souls discovering one another, again, for the first time.

Breath belonged to no one, but was exchanged, the currency of passion. Heartbeats thrummed in unison. Moans and panting filled the space between them. Rising with the swell of their mounting desire until; finally, their panicked shouts were muffled between lips pressing into one another. Hard, frantic and slowing. Then soft, and softer, still.

Donatello looked into her eyes, his wild with wonder and love, hers liquid pools of adoration and relief.

He smiled and seeing his smile, April returned it. Her fingertips dancing along the tops of his shoulders, caressing down to either side of his arm, brushing the stump of his left, but he hardly noticed. In fact, her touch was tiny fireworks across his flesh. He shivered.

She laughed, and grew serious, saying, "I love you."

His throat worked, eyes welling. "I love you, too." He brought his forehead to hers and whispered, "April." He raised up and kissed her once again, long and gently, pressing his lips to hers.

"How," his voice caught and he went on, hoarsely, thick with emotion, "did I ever get so lucky?"

And he meant it, sincerely. For he felt he was the luckiest soul in all the known and unknown universes in that moment and forever on.


End file.
